To Carry for Another
by Perhelediel
Summary: After the ambush on Weathertop, Frodo is too weak to bear his burden. In bearing the Ring for him, another of his friends will realize more about the danger of the Quest than he ever thought possible.
1. Ambush

Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien's. And rightfully so. All characters, locations, _some_ of the events, and such are his property; the interpretation of it is my own.

Suilad, everyone! Well, I'm back with yet another story. Hope you all enjoy it as much as you did the last one, _Underneath the Mallorn Tree_. The reviews were so kind and encouraging. Thanks again, everyone! Hope you enjoy my next attempt.

* * *

Chapter One: Ambush

"Back, you devils!"

As he sprang forward involuntarily, flashing his small sword threateningly, his will kept firm, but his small stature wavered. A long slender dagger emerged from the towering shroud before him and swept him roughly aside with, seemingly, no more effort than if he were made of thin air.

He landed hard, skidding across gravelly rocks on his hands and knees, the eroded ruins of the ancient stone arches scraping away fabric and skin. Sam slid to a stop against a mossy pillar, his small sword under him and blood on his hands.

A sharp, ringing clang echoed in the gloom and then a twin pair of whimpers. Merry came rolling toward Sam, his cloak wrapped around him multiple times. Sam shook his head blearily, putting a hand to his forehead and feeling a knot that had already began to form beneath his curls. The panic on Merry's face frightened him, as the younger hobbit mouthed soundlessly, pointing towards the cloaked terrors nearby.

Pippin was getting to his feet unsteadily a few paces away, gravel embedded in the weave of his cloak. Sam leaped up, his head spinning, but he ignored it for the moment; there were more pressing matters to deal with.

Where was Strider?

Sam's heart turned over as a terrified cry reached his ears.

"_Sam!"_

"I'm comin', Mr. Frodo!"

He sprinted across the stone toward the source of the cry. He could not see his master amid the towers of black shroud.

He glanced back hurriedly, panicking, seeing his sword useless and somewhat blackened yards away. Too far away. He had to act now.

He felt frantically upon himself and his back, and his hand grasped cold metal. He tore it free, whatever it was; he didn't have time to look. He charged with a yell and delivered a solid swing into the nearest wraith.

The pan bounced back with a deafening metallic crash, and the metal legplates of the enemy had resisted the blow. Once again he was swept aside, this time by a manacled hand. He landed hard on his side. His heart was beating quickly and painfully within his chest, and tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his eyes.

And then it happened. Sam saw a flash of silver hurtling towards the feet of one of the Nazgul. A tearing, horrible shriek rang out, and Sam cast himself upon the ground once more, clapping his hands over his ears. It was not enough. The shriek was in his mind, crying shrilly and chilling him to the bone.

He saw as if in a dream, a mighty arm draw back and thrust forward. And as he let go of his own ears, an awful, pained cry seemed to issue from far away, though somehow Sam knew it came from the prostrate figure in the center of the ambush.

The gardener was nearly knocked over again in his frozen grief as a tall figure swept pas him and firelight blinded him.

_Strider!_

The circle of darkest night dispersed. Strider's torch swung about, as he grunted with each effort, catching on the creatures' robes and letting them feel the wrath of the broken hilt and blade shard of Narsil.

Sam frantically looked for his master. He felt about in the darkness, the firelight flickering on the cracked flagstones. Then he saw it.

A rippling shadow, as that of a cloak in the wind, cast upon the uneven ground, but Sam himself was not the source of it; nor was anyone else close enough.

"Mr. Frodo, where are you?" he cried.

He felt about. A touch like fabric met his hand, though he could see nothing but the grey stone, and when he grasped at it, it gave to his fingers.

"Frodo! Mr. Frodo!"

His hands, searching vainly for his friend, waved about slowly in the air. And then without warning, trembling fingers tightened around his own. Sam held onto them for dear life, looking around blindly. And suddenly Frodo was there, tangible, flat on his back on the cold stone ground. As he appeared, he cried out hoarsely, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and his face sharply contorted in pain.

He looked at his gardener with great effort; Sam was bending anxiously over him. A glint of gold flashed through the chilled air from Frodo's right hand and onto the ground.

"Oh, Sam."

Sam squeezed Frodo's hand gently. _Oh, but it's as cold as ice, _he thought, rubbing the hand of his friend softly with calloused fingers, trying in vain to warm him up. He drew the hand near his face and blew on it, wrapping it in a fold of his cloak.

Frodo cried out again, and grasped at the cloak fabric covering his left shoulder, which Sam had not noticed was soaked with dark blood. A ragged hole pierced cloak, vest, and flesh. Sam's stomach clenched at the sight.

"_Strider!"_

The Ranger rushed over and bent over the hobbit anxiously, pulling back the fabric and tearing it slightly with his strong hands to expose the wound. He murmured to himself, gently replacing the cloth back over it and stood back up, his dark eyes flicking around upon the stone.

Frodo sat up slightly, supporting his weight on his right elbow. He sat all the way up, and put a trembling, deathly white hand to his left shoulder, wincing a little as he did. He drew it away, and wet and livid upon his hands was his own red blood intermingled with black.

He looked up at Sam as Strider examined the ground. Sam gasped. Beneath the pupil of both his friend's eyes was a crescent of livid, almost glowing green. The lids were rimmed with red.

Strider was running one long finger alone the flat edge of a blackened and blood-spattered dagger. He brought the tip close to his face, examining it with one closed eye.

"A Morgul blade," he said, blandly and monotonously, as if he could hardly believe it. "He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade."

With a look of desperation and disgust mingled together, he threw the dagger from him. But even as if fell, the blade dissolved and drifted away as a fine black dust carried by the chilly western wind. The hilt clattered on the mossy flagstones.

"He needs Elvish medicine. I cannot heal this wound alone," he said, helping Frodo to his feet, but the wounded hobbit faltered. As his knees buckled, Sam caught him, drawing his master's good arm across his own shoulders and holding his hand tightly. With his free hand he supported his friend, holding him up from under Frodo's arm.

Suddenly Frodo cried, "Where is it? I've dropped it. It's on the ground somewhere…"

Merry knelt, peering beneath the brush, shifting so that the firelight might illuminate what he was looking for. Suddenly a glint of gold shone out, and Merry grabbed at it, but hastily let it fall again with a shout of surprise. The Ring fell, lightly clinging against the flagstones. Frodo flinched, relinquishing Sam's hand for a moment to grasp at the wound.

"It's hot!" Merry cried, exposing a livid scald on his palm. "As burning hot as anything."

He tentatively touched the flaming band of gold with one finger, then he pinched a fold of his cloak to lift it, and looked to Frodo.

Frodo looked at it with a pained expression on his face. Slowly he extended his hand to receive it from his cousin. It was apparent that he was loath to reclaim the dreaded thing.

Sam looked at his master and bit his lip, his heart moved with pity.

"I will carry it for him."

Frodo's hand dropped once more to his side, and Sam felt some of the tension leave his master's body, and he slumped into Sam's hold once again.

The gardener stared at the thing, a seemingly innocent band of glittering gold, dread and fear striking into his heart as he watched. Strider watched him with an expression that was hard to read. Sam glanced at his master, whose ethereal glowing eyes were gazing at him with mingled relief and gratitude, but also something else…was it suspicion? Sam couldn't quite tell.

* * *

To be continued… 


	2. Lure

Chapter 2: Lure

His palm was clammy. And cold.

So cold.

An ember from their campfire was crumbling between Sam's fingers as he grasped Frodo's hand. It was still slightly warm, but not doing much to keep Frodo's icy hand from trembling.

Somehow Sam knew that the only alternative he had was the smouldering-hot gold band in his pocket. His calloused fingers were still slightly tender from claiming the thing, and it lay heavily against him through the worn fabric.

Strider had led them down from the peak of Amon Sul and under the cover of nearby trees before stopping to tend to the wounded hobbit in his care. He helped Sam lay the Ring-bearer against a mossy boulder, and carefully pulled the singed and torn fabric away from the wound.

"Merry! Pippin!" he called and whistled softly. Merry came rushing up, and Pippin came panting with Bill the pony still reined, with the straps in hand.

"Is he alright?" he inquired breathlessly. "Is he going to die?"

Strider evaded both questions. "Look around for athelas. Kingsfoil it is, by the Shire tongue. It'll be small and close to the ground. Hurry!"

Pippin frowned, looking blankly at Sam.

Sam looked quickly at Strider, then down at his master. "Kingsfoil? Aye, but isn't that a weed?"

"Its virtue is stronger than you may think, Master Gamgee."

Frodo was dozing, and seemed to be at ease, at least for the moment.

"Come on, Pip," he said finally, releasing Frodo's hand reluctantly. "I'll help you look."

Down on their hands and knees, they crawled about in the dimly lit clearing, squinting at the damp ground. Pippin's normally pink and cheerful cheeks now held a grey pallor; his lips were tightly pressed together and his grey eyes were bright. Sam caught his eyes, and they smiled weakly, yet somehow comfortingly, at one another.

Sam spread the unruly brush apart, slowly raking through the foliage with his fingers. _Where was it?_

"Here!" Pippin cried in relief, his face hidden in the brush, his hands holding the branches apart. They were scraped and bloody from the thorns.

Sam rushed over. Indeed, it was! Sprouting from the moss was a bundle of small leaves with tiny, blue-white blossoms. Pippin was prying the roots from the ground, to no avail.

Sam hurriedly reached into his pocket, fingers searching for his small knife. But they touched the Ring first. He frowned and paused, an odd feeling coming over him.

Pippin looked swiftly at Sam. He was stock-still, staring unseeing before him, his hand frozen in his pocket. His breath was suddenly ragged in the chill air.

"Sam?" Pippin said in annoyance, nudging him. The older hobbit blinked once, muttering, "Sorry…" and extracted the knife from his pocket. Out with it slipped the gold ring, and it fell to the ground.

An unearthly shriek pierced the chill air from a distance, causing all who heard it to cast themselves upon the ground and cower.

"They're close!" Merry cried in a hissing whisper.

Pippin turned his head from his prostrate position on the ground. Sam's eyes were shut and his face white. His fists were tightly clenched.

* * *

Sam had never known such trial. 

Voices.

Evil, hissing voices he was sure no one else could hear. Coaxing, demanding. The Ring felt warm and pleasant in his closed fist, and against his will his fingers were working to pick it up and put it on.

_Make it end! _he screamed within his thoughts. _No! _

The shriek faded away, and he could hear only the pained yell of his master, and suddenly it passed. He slumped on his side, and opened his eyes. The Ring had made it as far as the first knuckle on his first finger, and still it rested there, glimmering innocently in the firelight. He pulled it off hastily, breathing heavily, and held it tightly in one closed fist.

Pippin got up carefully, crawling over to Sam. He put a hand on him, shaking him gently, rousing him.

Sam sat up, rubbing at his eyes. He slid something back into his pocket. Pippin watched concernedly as the gardener cut the roots of the herb and gathered them up.

* * *

"Sam? What is it?"

Frodo had awoken to the grey light that preceded dawn. Sam sat beside him, head back against the tree they had made camp under. Dark lines were under his eyes, and his lips were pale and set in a firm line.

But as his master stirred, he snapped out of his sleepy reverie and moved closer.

"What? Oh, nothing, Mr. Frodo. I'm just a bit tired, is all."

He got to his feet stiffly and picked up a bit of the athelas plant left over from the long night, dipping it in the pot of water that hung over the smouldering coals.

"You're going to be alright Mr. Frodo," he said, lifting the bindings that covered Frodo's wound and pressing the plant into the cloth, then replacing it.

"You're going to be alright."

But Frodo had already drifted back off.

Sam sat there for a long while. One hand held his master's, and the other was in his pocket, one finger brushing against the smooth band of gold.

_Come now, Samwise. It's not yours. You know that. You know how dangerous it is._

He did. But the incident the night before had scared him…frightened him out of his wits. He had realized then that he was a danger to everyone…realized he might not be strong enough. Not enough to resist its lure.

You can't keep it. You know that. It's the Enemy's ring. It will destroy you…and everyone else!

Uncertainty.

* * *

To be continued… 


	3. The Broken Blade

Chapter Three: The Broken Blade

Sam snapped awake with the breaking of a twig nearby. Strider was approaching, and dawn had come and gone.

Sam yawned and rubbed his eyes sleepily, but then suddenly recalled all that had happened just that night past. He leapt up and flew to Frodo's side. His master's face was pale, his eyelids fluttering in sleep and his skin damp. His hand quickly found its way into that of his gardener.

Strider gently tore off the bandaging and exposed the wound in Frodo's shoulder.

"Oh, Eru," Sam whispered in surprise. The actual stab-mark was nearly closed up; the skin around it an angry color and splintered with frost. Strider stooped over the weakened hobbit and began to bind what was left with athelas.

"Strider?" Sam asked. "If it's nearly healed, why is he getting worse?"

Strider sighed, wrapping a clean rag around the mark. "The tip of the Nazgul's blade broke off when he stabbed Frodo. He aimed for his heart…"

Frodo suddenly roused and cried out hoarsely, gasping for breath. His eyes opened, and his once-blue eyes were a pale and livid luminescent green.

Sam put his weathered hand to Frodo's brow. His friend was sweating and yet ice-cold to the touch. Frodo whimpered weakly, still dreaming, and quailed under Sam's hand, seeming to calm, or perhaps becoming still out of fear. His eyes closed again, but his face and body were rigid and tense.

Strider continued. "He aimed for his heart. We were saved by sheer luck…but the tip is still there, working its way in. If it succeeds, he'll become a wraith like them."

Sam absorbed this unwillingly, tightening his hold gently on his master's hand.

The Ring still lay in his jacket pocket. Almost nonstop it taunted him now, asking, _forcing _him to do the unthinkable: to slip it on, to disappear, to claim it even if it was folly to do so. It was gaining control on him now; preying on his plain-hearted weakness.

It inflicted upon him a feeling of hopelessness, convincing him it would be better to have it discovered and be free of it. He had to fight it. He knew. He knew he had to, for Frodo's sake. And it was the love for his friend that had to keep him true. He knew that.

He hated It. He loathed It. With disgust he took It out and stuffed it into his vest pocket, desperate to put another layer between him and its evil.

A chill wind swept past the forlorn group. Rivendell was some days away. The Nazgul were nearer.

* * *

As the days wore on, Frodo improved a bit. One night as Strider checked his wound, Merry saw that it was entirely closed up; now it was just an angry white mark upon a reddened shoulder.

They plodded along the sodden path, their cloak hoods drawn up and the steady rain soaking into them. Frodo rode the pony, the raindrops streaming across his upturned face.

As they finally changed direction and stumbled into the obscurity of the brush, the rain lessened slightly and the treetops fragmented what little light the grey skies gave. Pippin led the way.

Without warning, the young hobbit yelled out and doubled back, knocking Merry over and nearly tripping Strider. Mud splashed up and hit the two cousins and the Ranger.

"Trolls!" Pippin cried, his face white but an odd twinkle in his eye. "Just there!"

"Sam, your sword, please," Strider said, peering ahead and holding his hand vaguely behind him in Sam's direction. Sam let go of the reins and shook his small sword from the makeshift sheath, handing the blade to the waiting hand.

But as he let go, he saw that the blade was partially eaten away. The silvery blade was barely left intact, with blackened and charred bits of it completely gone and the runes rendered unreadable. Sam frowned confusedly, wondering how on earth it could have happened.

"Stri--" he began, but the Ranger was off, lightly moving in the direction of the monstrosities, ignoring or not seeming to notice the maimed blade in his hand.

And from his direction came a sound that was most unexpected in that hour: laughter.

Strider stood at the feet of one of the beasts, a thin stick in one hand and Sam's sword in the other.

"Get up, old stone!" he laughed, bringing the stick hard down upon the knee of the squatting troll, and it splintered and broke against it.

All four of the hobbits cried out in surprise and fear. The pony reared slightly, startled, and Sam pulled him forward at a run. Frodo leaned forward and tightened his hold on the pony's mane. Sam met his eyes. To his relief, some of the ethereal glow in his master's gaze was gone.

As they got closer, Frodo laughed, a sound that was some comfort to all of them.

"Bilbo's trolls!" he cried, his eyes bright with mirth. "The very ones Gandalf caught with the rising sun!"

Sam grinned. "So they are, Mr. Frodo!" he said, relieved to hear his master speak again; he had been silent for days.

"Indeed," Strider said, smiling slightly. He extended the sword handle back toward Sam, and caught sight of it as he did.

"The blade…why, Sam!" he said with incredulity, pulling it back towards him and examining the eaten blade. "Swordfighting with one of them! All blades perish that pierce the dreadful King."

"That pierce…the King…what?" Sam was utterly confused. "What king?"

"The Lord of the Nazgul. The Witch-king. You crossed blades with him, and evidently you cut him…deeply."

With the last few words, his face took on an impressed air, admiring the neat work Sam had done. "You made him angry," he said. He tossed the blade back to Sam, and the hobbit caught it with his bare hands.

Sam stared at the blade in mild shock. He had only remembered being swept aside…not actually having done any damage.

"You made him angry," Strider's voice said again within his mind.

Would Frodo have been hurt if Sam hadn't moved? If…if he hadn't made him angry, would he have struck?

Should he have…stood his ground, protecting Frodo to his death? Had he overestimated his own skill in swordplay…been too bold…should he have stayed put…?

As he stared, lost in a moment of thought, his grip on the blade loosened and it slid through his slack fingers, and one of the sharp, blackened fragments cut across his palm.

He gasped in surprise and pain, and dropped the sword involuntarily. It fell silently to the soggy earth. He drew a sharp breath and bit his lip, clenching the cut hand into a tight fist.

"Sam, are you alright?" Merry asked, looking concernedly at the gardener.

"Fine…I'm fine. Cursed blade cut my hand," he said, pressing his fingers against the cut, and grinning at Merry, who returned the smile and continued on.

And then it hit again. Temptation.

Awful, pleading, coaxing, demanding temptation. He clenched his fists and laid them forcefully into his pockets.

Wrong thing to do.

For, of course, that was where _it _rested.

Resisting with all the will he could muster…

Voices.

Hissing, silky-smooth, tempting.

NO!

And as he pleaded with himself and with it…the Ring slipped onto his finger.

* * *

YAY for cliffhangers! Will be continued shortly. 


	4. Glorfindel

Hey everyone. Sorry about the long wait. I just want to mention there's a bunch of quotes from the book "Fellowship of the Ring" that I borrowed for accuracy and effect. The next chapter will be up tomorrow, as soon as I finish typing it.

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Chapter Four: Glorfindel

Terrified he pulled it off, and flung it away, putting his face in his hands and casting himself down upon his knees. For the moment he was unaware of anything but the horror and guilt that were wracking his body. He cowered on the ground where he kneeled, and let the fear and revulsion take over. His distress was beyond tears; he stared blindly at the ground ahead of him.

Merry crouched down and put a hand roughly on his shoulder.

"Sam, what's the matter? What's happened?"

"It's taking me," Sam muttered as he took the hand that Merry extended to help him up. He wasn't entirely sure that the younger hobbit had heard him.

Hooves. And far away, that unearthly moan.

"Oh, look what I've gone and done, now!" Sam said roughly, angry with himself.

"What? Done what?" Merry asked, utterly confused as they took flight.

Sam's heart stopped. They hadn't seen him put it on. They didn't know he had given in.

"This way! Make haste!" Strider yelled, scooping up his pack as the hobbits flew past him. Pippin ran to the pony's side and took the reins, and Sam held onto the saddle where Frodo sat. As they fled, he scooped up the Ring and slid it into his pocket with a look of utmost resentment. He thought he saw Frodo watching him as he did.

* * *

"Stop!" Strider said breathlessly. "We'll be overtaken. All we can do now is hide." He was doubled over, clutching his side from running. 

The hobbits and the Ranger slid into the brush and down a small hill, putting their hoods up and crouching low.

Frodo was trembling. Sam put a comforting hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. His master's breathing came short and ragged. Sam watched helplessly as Frodo's eyes slid shut, and his hand clutched at his left shoulder.

Strider knelt beside Merry, holding the knotted brush apart with his hands, squinting in the direction of the ever-closer hoofbeats.

"Daro! Ai, Eru, daro…" he said in a hissing whisper.

Sam looked at him. What was he saying?

"Daro…daro," Strider said in a quietly commanding tone. He looked anxious and closed his eyes, frowning and hoping.

So close now.

Sam bit his lip and tried not to breathe. He could sense Merry beside him, whose eyes were bright from anxiety and whose hands were wrung together so tightly that the knuckles were white.

The hoofbeats slowed.

_The rider was right in front of them._

Sam hurriedly buttoned his vest pocket shut, and took Frodo's hand in both his own, grasping it as if it were his anchor to the world he knew.

The rider jumped from its mount, and fell with a slight crunch of the crisp fall leaves, as opposed to the heavy metallic crash he should have heard.

"Ai, na vedui Dunedan! Mae govannen!"

Strider scrambled out of the brush. Sam's eyes widened, and he peered out from under cover.

An _elf?_

So it seemed. Sam heard Strider greet the newcomer in the same tongue, and wrap him in a quick embrace. Sam grinned a little as the elf awkwardly returned it with an odd look on his face, as if he was not used to it.

Frodo coughed, and suddenly the brightened figure turned and noticed the watchers in the wood. He wore a burgundy cloak of velvet, and underneath a dark tunic and faded leather boots. His white-gold hair was tousled from flight, and his clear and stern grey eyes seemed to pierce the dense brush as he made towards it.

Merry and Pippin stumbled out and stood up, in awe more than anything, and stood silently watching as the Ranger continued talking to the fair newcomer.

"Come on, Mr. Frodo," Sam said finally. "Up you get."

Frodo clung to Sam's supporting arm, and slowly got to his feet, and Sam helped him out of the green obscurity.

"This is Glorfindel of the House of Elrond," Strider said, the relief shining plainly on his face.

"Hail, and well met at last! They sent me from Rivendell to look for you. We feared you were in danger on the Road." His gaze rested primarily upon Frodo, who seemed to be waking up and coming out of the fog a bit. Sam shuffled from foot to foot self-consciously.

Glorfindel began speaking to Strider, and without obvious reason, switched to an Elvish tongue. Frodo listened raptly as his friends abandoned comprehension and their thoughts turned elsewhere.

Glorfindel glanced at Sam for a moment, and the hobbit met the gaze. He quailed a bit under the piercing stare, and averted the stern yet gentle eyes. Frodo slumped slightly against his gardener's shoulder, and Sam shifted to hold him up.

Strider glanced at him sidelong.

Sam could feel it. He was the detriment. A danger to them all.

_You can't blame them, Sam Gamgee. After what you've done, it's a wonder they haven't left you behind yet_.

"Sam."

He glanced at Frodo, who gave him a small grin.

* * *

"It'll work. It has to." 

Frodo was upon the great white horse the elf had ridden on, his hood drawn up and his white hands grasping the reins. Glorfindel was slowly coaxing the bit into the horse's teeth, softly murmuring to it.

Sam stood nervously beside Pippin. The thing was still in his pocket. _Still._

Glorfindel's feet suddenly appeared before Sam's downcast eyes. Sam flinched in surprise as a hand was laid on his shoulder. Slowly he upturned his face to look up at the fair and gentle gaze.

"I know the fear it causes you. But you must carry it for a little while longer. Do it for your master. Do it for Frodo."

The gentle look in his eyes did something at least to comfort Sam. Slowly he nodded and smiled, and as he turned away, some of the guilt in his heart lessened.

Merry and Pippin were talking to Frodo, seeming to be saying goodbye. Sam couldn't hear them.

Then, for the first time in a long while, the shrieking cry echoed in the grey twilight.

"They're close!" Merry cried.

"We have to move…quickly!"

Strider hurriedly fastened Frodo's sword and sheath to the horse's saddle, and wrapped the reins thrice about Frodo's icy and white hand, his fingers slipping on the leather.

Sam put a hand to his own face. This was his fault. All his fault, wasn't it?

_There I go again. I went and waded right in before knowing what's what_.

If he hadn't put it on…tears pricked at his tired eyes. Suddenly he rushed forward, taking Frodo's hand in his own and gripping it tightly. His friend looked down at him.

"You'll be alright," he whispered fiercely. "Just wait. I'll be close behind."

Frodo managed a small nod as a fit of wheezing shook him again, and Sam felt a weak squeeze from the icy hand.

Against his will he relinquished his friend's hand and stepped back. A tear slid silently down his face as Glorfindel gave a sharp slap to the horse's hindquarters, crying, "Noro lim, Asfaloth! Noro lim!"

And with a crack like a whip, the great white horse reared and crashed into the bleak obscurity of the brush and was gone.

* * *

Please review! b Next chapter up tomorrow. 


	5. Flight to Brunien

This chapter was largely written during school, during English class, when we had a substitute for 2 solid weeks. Plenty of time to get creative juices flowing...I was just too excited about this one to NOT post it. Well, I hope you enjoy it...it takes up roughly 12 pages of notebook!

* * *

Chapter Five: Flight to Brunien

"Sam! Pippin! Get down!"

Sam felt Strider's wide hand push him down by the top of his curly head. Down into the brush he sank, the branches scraping against his cheek.

Strider crept beside him, and spoke in a hissing and quiet whisper, that was somehow still gentle.

"They're getting closer. They'll pass right by us if our plan goes well. They'll follow Frodo, because, as Gandalf said, 'they are quick, but none too swift!'"

Sam turned his head to look at the Ranger.

"If all goes well," he faltered for a moment. "Frodo's the bait. The Ring resides with you. They'll follow him and pass us by."

He met the hobbit's eyes.

"You've resisted bravely thus far. All I ask is that whatever you do…_do not put that thing on._ It's especially important right now, in this moment."

The odd and hurt look that came into Sam's countenance caused him to revise what he'd said.

"I'm not questioning your honesty, or intelligence, Master Gamgee. I know you'd never put it on. Just keep strong. You've fought bravely."

Sam nodded and swallowed hard. The anger he felt for the danger that his master was in was subsiding, to be replaced by something else…he had never felt so guilty in his life. They didn't know. They didn't.

Suddenly the whistling shriek pierced the night once more. Heartrending and chill it was, and cast fear into all who heard it. Far away, in the opposite direction, a panicked whinny echoed but louder still was the pained yell that came with it.

"Frodo!" Sam cried out involuntarily, quickly clapping his hand over his mouth and cowering into the brush. He could feel guilty later. Right now he had a tremendous fate resting on his own strength, until the danger galloped by and away.

The hoofbeats were closer now.

Merry was huddled in his cloak beside Sam. He looked at the gardener, who was lost in thought. A shiver went quickly through the young Ring-bearer and then he was still again.

The approaching hoofs could be felt faintly in the ground, reverberating as they fell. The chinking and clinking of the black horses' iron fittings…

The whistle of a cloak whipping about in flight…

Sam felt sick. He swallowed hard, trembling slightly, his face contorted with anxiety. He glanced at the elven lord near him.

Glorfindel was pale, sheathing a small burning brand with his hand, a dead torch in his lap. Strider sat, knees drawn to chest, his grey eyes cold and fearful beneath his hood.

And suddenly the Nazgul were upon them.

On the beaten road, they thundered by, five Ringwraiths and their steeds, just a few strides away from the fearful watch of the true Bearer they sought.

And then, beyond hope…they were gone.

_Gone._

All the strength went out of Sam in his relief, and he slumped on his side, eyes closing, the pent-in breath exhaling from him.

"Sam!" Pippin cried. "We have to move!"

With a jolt Sam thought of Frodo, not so far ahead, and at the mercy of the Black Riders. Unaware of how close they were. And who knew how much worse he had become in the past hours.

He leapt up and out of the brush. Strider and Glorfindel were running and were already far ahead, their torches lit and burning brightly. Sam flew after them, Merry close behind him, and Pippin leading the pony at great speed. Sam could see the hoof prints, heavy in the sodden road, grow ever clearer and deeper as they went.

The rush of water faintly reached his ears, and Sam quickened his pace. Just ahead…

For a moment, the Ring taunted him half-heartedly, asking him to put it on, to distract the devils from his master.

The group crashed onto the pebbles of the shore.

There they were, fording the wide river, the foam lapping to their horse's metal anklets; they were undeterred, seemingly, by the rushing water.

Sam could faintly hear a voice above the rushing of the water. And suddenly he could see the white horse through the reeling mist. Upon it was a small figure, very nearly as pale as the steed it rode, upon the opposite shore.

"Frodo!" Sam yelled fiercely, but it was lost in the noise and confusion.

Suddenly the Nazgul stopped their cruel advance. But cold shrill laughter echoed in the dying trees.

"Come back! Come back! To Mordor we will take you," the evil voices hissed with mirth.

Sam's heart was beating painfully. He so badly wanted to cross the river, to help his master. He was there, just out of reach…if he could just…

Glorfindel and Strider seemed to have no such intention, though the fear on their faces showed plainly. They stood still as stone, their torches flickering, just as helpless as Sam felt.

Suddenly he saw the horse rear. Frodo still clung to him, and he drew his small sword and raised it above him with great effort.

His voice was weak but clear, and straining his ear, Sam heard him as the horse came back down.

"By Elbereth and Luthien the fair," he cried above the din. "You shall have neither the Ring nor me!"

Suddenly, if it was possible, the rushing of the water grew louder and stronger to an almost deafening clamor. Sam snapped his head to the right and saw a plumed cavalry of waves of tremendous height at a distance.

Merry and Pippin cried out in perfect synch, knocking into Sam as they rushed forward, and they stood stock-still.

"Frodo! Get back!" Aragorn bellowed at the top of his voice, but it was not loud enough. He and Glorfindel ran closer to the water, brandishing their bright torches and standing their ground, tall and terrible, beyond all hope.

The flood crashed down the river and came into clear view, coming to such a terrible height that Frodo and the great white horse disappeared behind the thick veil of mist that preceded it.

The wraiths were thrown into a panic. Several of them attempted to come back to the nearer shore where the stricken group watched, but Strider and Glorfindel leapt forth with their blazing brands, discouraging the raven horses.

"Caught between fire and water!" Glorfindel cried, his golden hair whipping him about the face as it flew in the rushing mist.

The Nazgul pulled back, and madness took the black steeds, and they plunged headlong into the flood and were overtaken. A terrible, combined shriek of defeat pierced the chill air and was muffled as the floodwaters swept them away.

Suddenly Sam felt as if a fist that had been clenched about his heart released, and suddenly he could breathe again. Any lingering pulls of temptation left him.

He felt whole…more so than he had since he first took the Ring upon himself.

Aragorn and Glorfindel waited a moment, and then crashed forward into the agitated water, which had lessened to a height that lapped against them to the tops of their leather boots.

Without even pausing to consider, the three hobbits waded in after them. Sam tried to run, but at the center, the water came up to his waist and made him sluggish. Pippin stumbled and went in up to his neck before they all came staggering out of the icy water and onto shore. Glorfindel took Asphaloth by the reins and lead him away from the soaked, facedown figure that lay sprawled on the sodden riverbank. The horse had been nuzzling him.

Sam rushed toward the pathetic heap that was his master, his knees scraping against the river-stones as he fell upon his knees beside him. He rolled Frodo over gently until he came face-up and immediately wished he hadn't.

His master was deathly white, with dark circles under his eyes, and darkish lips that were slightly agape. His eyes were closed.

Merry and Pippin came skidding beside him and had nearly the same reaction. Strider bent over the sprawled hobbit, listening for breath and heartbeat…finally, he lifted him slowly from the ground and stood up, grasping him securely.

"We make for Rivendell," he said finally, his face set, but his eyes bright and voice weak. He said it to no one in particular. "Lord Elrond may yet be able to bring him back."

"Bring him back!" Merry cried, voicing what Sam himself was thinking, but was too stricken to say. "But surely he isn't…he's not…" He faltered, tripping over his own words as he laid eyes on his fallen cousin.

"I could be wrong," Strider said to himself. "I'm not a healer…"

He turned about and walked forlornly away.

Sam sat still upon his knees, his hands lax and laid palm-up in his lap, staring unseeing before him.

He was rendered motionless for a few long moments, too shaken by guilt and grief to even see beyond his own mind.

* * *

When the weary elven-lord finally left the small room, he found no one about but a light-haired halfling, dirty and wet-clothed, asleep upon a stone bench beside the door. His hand covered his eyes from the grey light of dawn, and he snored quietly and fitfully. 

Elrond knelt beside him, and slowly moved the hobbit's hand from his face. His closed eyes twitched slightly and he murmured something, frowning slightly. Elrond put a hand on his shoulder and gently tried to rouse him. The halfling blearily began to open his eyes, and murmured, "Mr. Frodo?" slurring the words in sleep.

The lord stopped suddenly. This had to be the servant of the wounded hobbit he had just tended to…the Ringbearer.

Sam blinked several times and came into focus. A dark-haired elf kneeled before him with a hand on his shoulder. With a start he sat up, startling the elven-lord.

"I am Elrond, master of Rivendell," he said softly. Sam fumbled to his feet and bowed deeply. Elrond lifted the hobbit's chin up.

"Your friend has returned. He's sleeping just inside the room there. I've convinced him to remain, but I'm not certain how he will fare. For now he is very much alive."

He led the halfling into the room. Sam broke free and ran to the bedside, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his master's hand in both of his.

Carefully he watched his master. Almost imperceptibly his chest rose and fell. His face was slightly rosy again. The furrows in his brow were eased.

And above all, the hand he held, while still cold, was ice no longer, and ever so slightly tightened about Sam's warm fingers. Sam slowly put his head facedown on the cool sheet beside him, and he wept.

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PLEASE REVIEW! 


	6. Gildorien

Whoo! Sorry for the extremely long wait, everyone. This time, I assure you, I am back with a vengeance and I will finish this story if it kills me. grins I've hit a snag in the storyline, but don't worry, in my notebook I'm four chapters ahead. Plenty of time to fix it without too much wait. Hope you enjoy the next chapter...it really is NOT that good. The next one is awesome, though. Will edit soon.

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Chapter Six: Waiting

Sam returned to consciousness abruptly the next morning. His eyes snapped open and were filled with blinding sunlight. Startled, he sat up, squinting about.

His head was pounding with exhaustion, but through the mist hanging before his eyes he saw dark walls, a flat ceiling. Candles in high stands flanked a great door of paned glass. It was remarkably warm. Tall windows flooded the room with autumn sunlight. He glanced to his left. Two lumpen forms concealed in blankets on beds beside him.

Beside him, his pack lay on the floor. Quickly he changed into his travelling-clothes, laying aside the unfamiliar nightclothes he had slept in. His garments seemed to have been healed of all hurts they had suffered thus far on their journey. Pippin emitted one very loud snore as Sam left the room, buttoning his vest as he went.

He found himself on what seemed to be an outdoor hallway, with open air on his right and the vast house on his left. A handrail, delicately traced with designs of leaves, came up to about Sam's chin, and he stood on tiptoe to look over, only to step back hastily. A steep drop into a glistening waterfall. It was enough to make any hobbit queasy.

With a final jolt out of sleepiness, he remembered.

"Where've they put Mr. Frodo?" he asked himself.

He went quickly along the walkway, turning the corner and finding still no one there. He looked out across the handrail and saw Rivendell's sprawl in its near-entirety. Tall columns, and gracefully sloping stairways and bridges, beautiful halls and rooms with open doors and windows, trees tall and flowers grand. And then there was the great river, in glimmering grandeur, softly murmuring as it lazed about the golden valley.

"Master Perian?"

Sam turned about, startled, and looked up at a she-elf. She wore a loose dress of dark grey-green with a sheer shawl about her shoulders. Her dark hair was pulled back into a headpiece of silver wrought in the likeness of leaves and vines.

Sam wondered what to say, a bit stunned by her sudden appearance. She seemed to sense his hesitation.

"My name is Gildorien. I've been asked to come look for you. Your friend is still asleep. Do you want me to take you to him?"

Nervously Sam nodded in relief. She turned and swept away, and he followed, head slightly down and shoulders tense. She led him up a stairwell and across many rooms, until at last he began to recognize the surroundings. She pushed open the door to the room he had fallen asleep in the night before.

Despair pricked at him as he looked upon the white figure asleep between the dark coverlets. Sam fumbled for Frodo's hand once more. There he stayed as the day waned, interrupted only to eat and when Merry and Pippin walked in to stay with him.

Finally, he could keep his eyes open no longer. Elrond appeared at the door.

"Will you be wanting to go to bed now, Master Perian? I shall be here all night keeping watch."

Sam looked up at him sleepily.

"Please, Master Elrond, may I stay with him?"

Elrond sighed and smiled at the gardener, and a light cot was brought and put outside the room. Sam slept fitfully. And in the night, the master of the house kept vigil.

* * *

"Master Perian! Master Perian? Awaken, please!"

Sam shook himself out of sleep blearily, clouded eyes casting about until they focused clearly on Elrond's face bending over him.

"I am sorry to wake you, but you must come with me."

Any annoyance Sam felt for being shaken awake vanished in an instant, and he quickly followed Elrond into the room, pulling his coat on as he went.

Gildorien was holding a damp cloth to Frodo's sweaty brow. His breaths were short and whistling, and his face was tense. The elf glanced up at Sam as he entered. Sam stood rooted to the spot, his hands resting on the coverlet and pain in his face.

"Take his hand, Samwise. He needs you."

Gildorien took the cloth off, and stood up, moving to a table with various glass bottles and herbs and busying herself.

Frodo's head shifted on his pillow slightly. Sam pulled the cover back, and took his hand in his own. The touch of the cold hand gave Sam a chill, and he breathed on it and rubbed it gently.

Elrond sat wearily in a high chair near the foot of the bed. The she-elf leaned close to his ear and spoke something that Sam could not understand. She moved to Frodo's other side and kneeled on the floor.

Sam tightened his hold on Frodo's hand. It seemed to him that his master's breathing grew easier, and the frown that creased his brow softened. Gildorien smiled.

"I knew it was so. He only seems to be peaceful when...when you're here, Master Perian. When your there with his hand in yours, he breathes easier."

Sam glanced up at her, incredulous.

The elf-lord stood from his chair. "Your presence seems to give him something of comfort, something to hold onto until the storm passes."

Suddenly Sam withdrew his hand. Elrond looked at the halfling, surprised.

"Doesn't he..." Sam stammered. "He...he knows that I'm to blame for what happened?"

Sam looked so upset that Elrond stood up and made towards him concernedly.

The hobbit knew, of course, that Elrond knew nothing of the fact that he had given in to temptation...he thought Sam felt guilty for Frodo being wounded in the first place. _I wish someone could set me aright, _he thought. Nevertheless, he reached out and took Frodo's hand as it seemed he had to, despite the guilt that pervaded his thoughts. He felt unclean, unworthy somehow, to be with his master who had _never _given in...who had kept his promise, and was so strong of will that he remained true.

Sleep was slowly overtaking him as he sat in the silence of the bedroom. He laid his head on the bed, still kneeling on the floor, and soon he was snoring, slumped against the side of the bed. Elrond moved toward the sleeping pair, and propped Sam's head on a pillow.

With a crash that would have woken the dead, the double doors to the room swung open and beat against the carven wall. Elrond and Gildorien nearly fell over, crying out in utter shock, and Sam woke with a yell.

In through the door stumbled a bedraggled figure in grey, windblown and wet from the rain. A gnarled hand reached up to pull the hood off the shadowed face.

Dried blood bespeckled the weathered face, and a long grey beard matted and tangled fell from a bruised nose and windburned cheeks.

"_Gandalf_!" Sam breathed in a whisper.

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EESH. This has been sitting in my notebook since January, and I spotted a lot of stuff wrong with it...ah well. I'll be editing it soon. Please review! Again, sorry for the delay. 


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